


The Christmas Cookie Caper

by miss_whimsy



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Baking, Bets, Christmas, Cookies, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_whimsy/pseuds/miss_whimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony is certain he can bake more Christmas cookies than Clint. 99.99% certain. How difficult is baking after all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Cookie Caper

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 105: Holiday baking requires strategy—spreadsheets, timetables, grocery runs planned out to the last detail. And then comes the actual baking…

Tony was halfway through his second cup of coffee before he became aware of other people in his kitchen.

“Our kitchen,” Steve corrected lightly and Tony focused his attention on him, taking in the apron and the mixing bowl with a glance.

“What are you doing?” Tony asked, and he didn’t think it was an obvious question, but the way Clint snorted in response seemed to indicate otherwise. Tony sniffed, catching a faint mix of cinnamon and nutmeg and shuffled over to stand between Steve and Clint. “What are you baking?” he amended.

“Christmas cookies,” Steve said, slapping Tony’s hand with his wooden spoon when he tried dipping his finger into the batter. “No.”

“But that’s the best part,” Tony protested, rubbing his hand. “And ow, by the way.”

“Leave them alone,” Phil said, catching Tony off guard and he spun on the spot to see Phil sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the morning newspaper.

“Have you been here this whole time?”

“They’re baking cookies for the homeless shelters,” Phil explained, ignoring Tony. “They have a lot to do.”

“All the homeless shelters?” Tony asked, turning back to Steve and Clint. “Can’t you just buy enough cookies for everyone? Baking them is going to take forever.”

“It’s more personal this way,” Steve said. “Anyone could go out and buy them. We wanted to do something special.”

Clint caught Tony’s eye and inclined his head towards Steve. Tony grinned back. Clint rolled his eyes.

“It’s civic responsibility,” Phil piped up, turning the page in the newspaper. Of course he would take Steve’s side.

“There has to be a quicker way of going about it though,” Tony said. “Scientifically. Then you’d be able to make more.”

“It’s not science, it’s baking,” Clint said, pouring his own batch of dough onto a baking sheet.

“Same difference,” Tony shrugged. “It’s just adding the right components in the right amounts to create the desired result.”

“So you think you could do better than us?” Clint asked, sliding the tray into the oven and then leaning back against the counter, arms folded across his chest, considering Tony with a sly smile.

“I think it can’t be that hard if you can do it,” Tony shot back. Clint’s smile only got bigger.

“Well we could use an extra pair of hands, miracle man,” Clint said. “Why don’t you get started?”

“What’s in it for me?” Tony asked.

“The knowledge that you’ve done something good for other people,” Steve said, turning to face Tony for the first time.

Tony smiled. “Yeah, but seriously, what’s in it for me?”

Clint laughed and Phil hid his smile in his mug of tea, the traitor. Steve shook his head, torn between amusement and irritation.

“We could make it more interesting,” Clint said. “What about a bit of friendly competition?”

“Like a bet?” Tony asked.

“No,” Phil said. “No, absolutely not. No more of your bets. Not after last time.”

“Hey, we got Bruce back didn’t we?” Tony said. “He enjoyed it.”

“Stark,” Phil protested, but it was far too late.

“If you can make more cookies than us,” Clint said, “I will cook us all Christmas dinner, with no help from anyone, including dessert and my famous eggnog.”

“Famous?” Steve queried.

“Lethal,” Phil muttered.

“Deal,” Tony said cheerfully. “And if you win, I will do the same for you.”

“No threats, please,” Clint said. “If I win, you fly us all away on that fancy jet of yours to some nice resort for some rest and relaxation.”

“Okay,” Tony said easily. “The two of you against one of me doesn’t really seem fair though.”

“Like you’re not going to use Jarvis,” Clint said, but Tony was still shaking his head.

“Jarvis doesn’t have hands. Four hands against two hands isn’t fair,” Tony said. He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Even if the hands in question are these ones.”

“Fine,” Clint said. “Take Phil.”

“Don’t drag me in into this,” Phil said, standing and gathering his newspaper to make a tactical retreat. “I’m not getting involved.”

“We could really use your help, Phil,” Steve said earnestly and Tony laughed outright as Phil visibly deflated.

“Fine.”

“I want Steve,” Tony said, drawing a smirk from Clint. “Shut up, Barton. Me and Steve versus you and Coulson. One “expert” baker and one amateur.”

Clint narrowed his eyes at Tony’s air-quotes, but shoved out his hand to accept the terms. “Deal.”

*

Natasha and Bruce, probably in a bid to escape the mayhem that was sure to follow, collected the cookies that had already been made and set off to deliver them.

“Try not to lose anyone this time,” Bruce said to Tony, giving him a friendly pat on the cheek. Tony clutched his heart as though wounded and Bruce laughed, picking up the last two boxes and following Natasha into the elevator.

Tony waved until the doors were closed and then turned on the spot to face Steve, who was leaning against the door-frame, watching Tony with the same bemused expression he always wore around him.

“Jarvis,” Tony said, smiling at Steve. “Take the quantities from the recipe Clint was using and order enough to make 1000 cookies.”

“Very good, sir,” Jarvis’s vaguely sardonic voice answered him and Tony grinned, rubbing his hands together in glee.

“See? This baking thing is easy.”

Steve shook his head, pushed himself away from the door-frame, and walked slowly towards Tony. “This was supposed to be fun.”

“It’s going to be fun, Cap,” Tony said. “I promise. You just have to trust me.”

Steve groaned and covered his face with his hands, which Tony thought was rather excessive. Baking cookies really couldn’t be that difficult after all.

*

Clint ignored everyone, refastened his apron and got back to baking.

“You can’t just carry on like nothing has changed,” Phil said, sat with his laptop in front of him at the kitchen table, typing furiously. “Do you have any idea how much more flour, sugar, eggs... everything, we’re going to need?”

Clint smiled to himself and started placing the new balls of dough onto a baking tray. “Are you using SHIELD resources to try to beat Stark? Whatever would Director Fury say?”

Without looking away from the computer, Phil picked up his cell and pressed a couple of buttons. “He said I have the full support of SHIELD and can do whatever I need to do to win.” Phil held up the phone and Clint turned and leaned across the table to read the message.

“For an organization trying to keep the world safe, we do seem to have an extraordinary amount of free time to devote to trivialities,” Clint said, turning back to cookie dough. He finished filling tray and slid it into the oven, retrieving an identical tray of freshly baked cookies as he did so.

“It’s the holidays,” Phil said, as though super-villains made allowances for such things. To be fair though, Clint had never worked a Christmas since he’d joined SHIELD, so maybe the bad guys of the world liked spending time over-eating and exchanging gifts with their families too.

“Look,” Clint said as he carried the mixing bowl over to the sink to rinse everything before starting another batch, “instead of breaking your brain trying to figure out how to beat Tony, why don’t you just do what I do?”

“And what’s that?” Phil said, looking up at last.

“Have faith that Tony is more likely to burn this whole building to the ground than he is to produce even one batch of edible cookies.”

*

There were 28 bags of flour stacked neatly on one of the workbenches in Tony’s lab, when he and Steve made it down there. 18 bags of sugar were piled next to those, with tray upon tray of eggs, next to dozens of bags on chocolate chips.

Tony walked around the workbench, hands fluttering over the ingredients but never touching.

“This is uh, a lot of stuff,” he said eventually, grabbing one of the bags of chocolate chips and opening it to take a handful. “I guess we need some sort of industrial mixer. I can make one of those. No problem.”

Steve took the chocolate chips away from him and set them carefully back on the workbench.

“Are you going to build a special oven too?” he asked, “because you can’t make cookies in a microwave.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s already a professional oven in the building, right Jarvis?”

“There is a pizza oven on the second floor,” Jarvis confirmed and Tony grinned at Steve triumphantly.

“Why?” Steve asked, sinking down onto a stool.

“For pizza, I guess,” Tony said, turning his attention away. “I’ll get started on the mixer.”

“I don’t suppose we have one of those on the second floor too?” Steve asked, and it was clearly a joke, but Jarvis’s dry “Yes, sir,” in response was enough to forestall any laughter.

“Uh, Jarvis,” Tony said. “Remind me what the second floor is again.”

“The staff cafeteria, sir,” Jarvis said. “And as such, there is a fully stocked kitchen, complete with catering equipment.”

“Huh,” Tony said. “Imagine that.”

*

Phil had spent thirty minutes doing calculations and making a list of everything they needed to buy, before bundling himself up against the cold winter weather and venturing out to buy ingredients.

“You know we could have all of this stuff delivered,” Clint had said, tapping one dough-covered finger against Phil’s painstakingly perfect list. He’d looked at his finger as Phil pulled the paper away from him and sucked the dough from it. “Mmmm.”

Phil had cleared his throat and adjusted his scarf. “I’ll be back in an hour, Barton. Try not to do too much damage while I’m gone.”

Now he shuffled back through the kitchen door, laden with bags. “I couldn’t get it all in one trip,” he said, shaking the snow from his coat. “I’ll have to go back.”

“Not until you’ve warmed up you’re not,” Clint said, taking the bags and setting them on the table. He guided Phil into a chair and started to unbutton his coat. “You look like a snowman.”

“It’s not too bad,” Phil sighed, closing his eyes as Clint helped him shrug out of his coat and pulled off his gloves. “It’s quite festive really, with the lights and the carolers. It’s just cold.”

Clint started a pan of milk warming on the stove and made them both a steaming mug of hot chocolate. He set one cup down in front of Phil, along with a plate of cookies. “Eat.”

“We’re not supposed to be eating these ourselves,” Phil protested half-heartedly, as he reached out to take one. Clint watched carefully as Phil took a bite and smiled at the look of surprise that crossed his face.

“Barton,” Phil exclaimed, “these are amazing.”

“Your faith in my abilities is always heart-warming, sir.”

*

Steve carried the ingredients down to the kitchen in two trips, while Tony started to make some plans for a machine that would simply take the ingredients that were added to it and turn them into cookies.

“Could you try not to look so disappointed in me?” Tony said, surprising Steve, who’d thought Tony had completely forgotten his existence.

“I’m not disappointed,” Steve said and it was a tiny white lie, but Tony knew it for what it was.

“You are,” Tony said. “I thought the point was to make enough cookies for the homeless shelters.”

“There’s never going to be enough,” Steve said quietly. “This was meant to be doing something personal.”

“Yeah, well this is how I can help,” Tony said, grabbing a blowtorch and leaning over what used to be an oven. “I invent things. Genius, remember?”

“Like you’d ever let us forget,” Steve muttered. “I just wanted to do something fun with my friends. I like baking.”

Tony hesitated at that, but he’d gone too far to back down now.

“As soon as the cookies are done, we can take them out and talk to people, how’s that?”

Steve, looking somewhat mollified, smiled at Tony. “Really? You’ll do that?”

Tony was five seconds away from saying he’d do anything Steve wanted, so long as he kept smiling like that. Instead he swapped the blowtorch for a wrench, and slid under the machine.

*

“It’s not going to break, sir,” Clint said, watching Phil poke at his bowl of cookie dough. “You need to start making them into balls.”

“How do I know I’ve done it right?” Phil said, rolling a ball of dough gingerly in his hands. “Mine doesn’t look like yours.”

“It looks fine,” Clint assured him. “Don’t worry so much. They’ll taste fine. The taste is the important part.”

Phil looked skeptical, as Clint replaced one freshly baked tray of perfectly formed cookies in the oven with a new batch. “How do yours look that good every time?”

“Practice,” Clint said, then laughed. “You just have to do this more often.”

“I think I’ll leave it to the expert in the future,” Phil said. “My hands are getting sticky.”

“So use some flour,” Clint said and, grinning, threw a pinch of flour at Phil’s face.

“Barton!”

“I really think you ought to call me Clint, sir,” Clint said and this time blew a handful of flour straight at Phil’s face.

“What the hell are you doing, Barton?” Phil exclaimed, looking down at his flour covered shirt.

Clint was bent double, trying to control his laughter. Phil pursed his lips and grabbed a handful of flour. “Oh, it is on now. Clint.”

*

Tony was busy. He’d spent two hours tearing apart the kitchen appliances and now he was half-way (he claimed) through the process of putting them back together in a way that would create magical (he claimed) Christmas cookies.

Steve was bored, having spent most of that time watching Tony doing... whatever he was doing, and the last hour reading through an old recipe book he’d found stuffed in a drawer.

There was a recipe for snickerdoodles that made him smile, and he read it over a few times before looking back over towards Tony’s feet which were just visible under the oven.

“Tony,” he said as gently as he could. “How much longer is this going to take?”

“I don’t know,” Tony said, after a good ten minute period in which Steve thought Tony hadn’t heard him. “How long has it been?”

“Almost three hours.”

“Huh,” Tony said, sounding genuinely surprised. “It doesn’t feel that long. I guess the same time again.”

Steve sighed, knowing Tony wouldn’t hear anything else he said anyway, and rolled up his sleeves. “I’ll just get us started,” he said, opening a bag of flour without one hand, while he pulled the recipe book closer with the other.

*

The kitchen looked as though something had exploded. Flour covered every surface and hung in the air, like a thick layer of smog.

Natasha stopped short in the doorway and took in the image of Clint and Coulson sitting side by side on the floor, their legs pushed close together and their hair white from the flour. They were laughing like children, passing a plate of cookies back and forth between them.

“You weren't supposed to eat them,” she said flatly, folding her arms. “We came back to get the next load.”

“Where’s Bruce?” Clint asked, stealing a bite of the cookie Phil held in his hand.

“There’s some sort of emergency on the second floor,” she said. “Jarvis stopped us on the way in. Did you actually make more cookies, or did you just use the flour to make a political statement about our kitchen?”

Clint pointed to the neat pile of boxes on the table, all filled with fresh cookies.

“I don’t care how many Stark made,” he said. “Phil’s going to help me make dinner for everyone.”

Natasha didn’t even bat an eyelash at Clint’s use of Coulson’s first name.

“Okay,” she said, heading back towards the elevator. “Phil had better help you clean up in here too.”

*

“It’s not my fault,” Tony said, as Steve took the fire extinguisher from Bruce and handed him a snickerdoodle. “If I had more time... We didn’t exactly put a limit on this thing.”

“I’m putting a limit on it,” Steve said and pushed one of the cookies into Tony’s mouth when he started to protest. “You can take us on vacation. We can cuddle up in front of a roaring fire and drink eggnog.”

“But I know what I did wrong, Cap,” Tony protested. “Just give me one more chance to...” He trailed off as something occurred to him. “Did you say cuddle?”

Steve blushed, but when he spoke he ignored Tony’s question. “We lost, okay?”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Natasha said, making everyone jump.

“How do you do that?” Tony asked, eliciting a tiny smile from her.

“They trashed the kitchen upstairs,” she said, taking one of the snickerdoodles. “Maybe not as badly as you trashed this one, but I’m calling it a draw.”

“Who made you the Cookie Bet Commissioner?” Tony grumbled, spinning the wrench in his hand as he looked back at his half finished work. “Fine, fine. I’ll take us somewhere with snow and roaring fires, and we are absolutely going to cuddle in front of one,” he said, pointing the wrench at Steve now, even though he was sliding back under the oven. “And then Clint can make us Christmas dinner.

“Sounds fair,” Steve said smiling. “I’m going to take these cookies to the shelters.”

“We’ll go get the ones from upstairs,” Natasha said, tugging on Bruce’s sleeve.

“Tony,” Steve said, “do you still want to come with me?”

Expecting another ten minute wait, Steve began to pile up the boxes of cookies he’d already baked, and was surprised when Tony grabbed the last two containers only a minute later.

“All you had to do was ask.”


End file.
